


Ghost in my Lungs

by eversingingleaves



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 13:28:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8403436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eversingingleaves/pseuds/eversingingleaves
Summary: Coran sees lost paladins where he should see new ones.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The working title for this was "Coran Feels", so yeah.

Coran had fought in battles before. He’d lost men, lost good friends- soldiers all. He’d never faced loss like this- a loss that left him cold, left him with nothing to hold but the wisps of memory of his people. He joked with the new paladins, pushing away the ghosts of the old. He tried hard not to see Altean features writ over human faces, ignored the commonalities that caught at his heart, that tugged at his chest and borrowed deep. 

 

Sometimes Lance would look at him and flash a brilliant grin and it was all Coran could do to keep breathing. Keith would work himself to death, if Coran didn’t stop him- but watching him train, watching him move squeezed his chest in a vise of after-images and ghosts. Working with Hunk in the kitchen, getting into the perfect rhythm of working in and around each other’s space- it was comfortable, easy, and devastating. The small one was the easiest to work with- they looked so physically different from the previous paladin it was easy to shake the ghost from his head. Even still- he sometimes caught himself mixing up their names in his thoughts. Shiro’s voice was so close to the Black Paladin’s that he caught himself wincing at the sharpness of it, a tone that sliced through his defences and left his heart aching for those he’d lost.

 

Coran thought he would die from the pain of it, so he threw himself into the work. He did as he always had, playing the support role. He made sure the paladins ate, made sure Allura was attended as she ought to be. Coran held her when she cried- he reminded her of their mission, of their responsibility, of their memories. It was he who reminded her of the memory chamber, he who kept them safe- as safe as he could.

 

It didn’t stop the haunting emptiness in his chest.

 

-

 

Lance returned to the command deck first, face flushed and jubilant. He grabbed Coran around the waist in a sweaty, exuberant hug. Victory poured off him in waves, and the Altean couldn’t help but grin back, taking a step back to balance against Lance’s momentum.

 

“We did it- we kicked their asses and took their names- Coran, we OWNED them!” Lance crowed, releasing him to go inflict his happiness on Allura. Coran watched, the memory of other victories, other paladins, playing out in his head like a relentless overlay he couldn’t clear. He sucked in a harsh breath, forcing the images away- forcing himself to be present as the other paladins swarmed the control room.

 

-

 

For all that he warned Allura against it, Coran spent more time than she did in the memory chamber. He strategized with Alfor, talking through plans with the faded memory of his best friend. It was almost enough- almost good enough to make him feel whole in the face of the pitiless truth. Sitting in the virtual field, sketching out strengths and weaknesses, it was almost as if Coran hadn’t been brought forward in time 10,000 years. Almost as if, when he walked through that door he’d be greeted by the real Alfor, by his Architect grandfather, by the bustle and hum of a Castle of Lions brought to life.

 

They were gone, and no matter how many times he talked to the King, they were never coming back.

 

The Castle was too quiet. There was too much empty space for the lack of sound to fill. The silence hung around him, draped over his shoulders in a way that seemed determined to bring him to his knees.

 

He barely noticed Number Five, crouched on the ledge of a porthole as they stared out into space. For once, they weren’t fidgeting or moving. Pidge held still, enthralled by the entirety of the stars, and Coran felt his chest constrict. The previous Green Paladin had liked that window too; it had been constructed with an extra-wide ledge due to a small blueprint error that his grandfather had always called intentional (it wasn’t). Coran couldn’t breathe for long moments, willing the spectre of his former paladins to pass out of his sight; it stayed, laid over the top of Pidge in a double exposure of pain. He was frozen on the spot, goosebumps making his mustache bristle, loss written large across his expressive features.

 

“Coran?”

 

Pidge’s voice broke the spell, and Coran flinched as if he’d been struck. In an attempt to recover, he smoothed down the front of his uniform; stroking his mustache back into place, he cleared his throat.

 

“Yes, Number Five? Pidge, isn’t it?” he answered, his voice cracking on the name. “Shouldn’t you humans be asleep by now? From what the large one said, it seems like your organic parts need to slumber every twelve to fourteen hours.” Coran babbled on, chasing Pidge from the ledge and back to their quarters with the combined force of overbearing politeness and iron will.

 

-

 

“Do you see them too, Coran?” Allura asked him quietly. They were watching the new paladins train, castle repairs put aside for the moment.

 

Coran glanced at her, a quick cut of his eyes that betrayed him entirely. He swallowed, adam’s apple bobbing as his mustache wobbled. 

 

“Yes,” he admitted, quiet but calm. He felt a warmth over his hand where he’d been gripping the end of the console. Coran glanced down to see Allura’s hand covering his, warmth and light radiating from her like a beacon. He allowed his gaze to travel upward to meet her eyes.

 

“Me too,” she said, just as quiet. She squeezed his hand once before letting him go, gaze directed back to the training deck. The paladins had lost focus and were squabbling amongst themselves, and Allura’s voice rang out over the intercom.

 

Coran couldn’t stop watching her.

 

“Paladins, that was disgraceful-” He let her voice wash over him with a sudden realization.

 

Though she had taken after her mother’s looks, in this moment- she was the spitting image of King Alfor.


End file.
